


African Sunrise

by OldDVS



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Not actual slash yet, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-03 16:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldDVS/pseuds/OldDVS
Summary: Mycroft comes by to deliver some very odd news.  A world-changing domino effect, implied.  Anyway, some fun backstory I thought explained why Uncle Rudy has a reputation for cross-dressing.  Or not. And Sherlock and John contemplate changes.





	1. Part One

African Sunrise, Part 1

Sherlock opened one eye. “Go away, do.”

John snorted as he waved Mycroft into the chair Sherlock had adopted as his own. Sherlock, stretched out on the sofa at the moment, managed not to say anything else as his brother approached, but he closed closed his eye again, as if the sight was quite painful

They were at the house John had shared with Mary, while 221 was in the throes of reconstruction. Mrs. Hudson was here as well, installed in the nursery at her insistence. John was terribly glad for the help. Between the three of them, they managed to function well enough to deal with the day to day effort of living, and the endless minor catastrophes involved in raising a toddler. Mrs. Hudson was currently out replenishing the larder, with Rosie's assistance. Poor woman. No doubt her absence factored into the timing of Mycroft's arrival.

Sherlock usually slept on the sofa, and was, in fact, not yet up for the day. It was clear he was not going to make an effort to rise just to deal with his brother.

John said, “Tea?” and went to make it without bothering to wait for an answer.

Mycroft sat down, carefully moving a mysteriously shaped toy from the vicinity of his foot. Then he made a throat-clearing sound and...stopped.

That brought Sherlock's eye open again. He looked carefully at his brother, and then swung himself up to a seated position, his hand rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What is it now?” he asked with a tight voice.

Mycroft gave a wave of his hand. “Not precisely disaster this time. Just...more layers.”

John called from the kitchen, “Should I go for a walk?”

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock and said, “Only if you wish to spare yourself more Holmes family drama.”

“Sherlock?” John asked, from the doorway.

Sherlock made a gesture towards John which said stay here and a wave towards Mycroft which prossibly meant, get on with it. John waited. Mycroft seemed to know what his brother intended and went on as if permission had been granted. It probably had.

“I have been looking into the...background of the....” Mycroft look vaguely constipated as he paused to find the right words.

“The whole Eurus mess?” John interjected, turning to look over his shoulder.

“Yes. Thank you, John. Even after some investigation and analysis there were some aspects the whole affair which were not explained to my satisfaction.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Yes. Quite. I must confess that in response, I did something...Sherlockian.” This time it was John who snorted. “Convinced that I did not have all the data, I...investigated. I began by thoroughly reading the files our parents keep in their home office.”

“Including the secret drawers under the desk?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes. As well as the other secret files in the hidden cabinet below the closet. Which both you and I managed to leave undiscovered during childhood. It took modern surveillance equipment to find it,” he added, when Sherlock looked rather outraged at the thought that he had Missed Something.

“And?” Sherlock prodded when Mycroft just sat there. Mycroft's lip folded over the edge of his teeth in a look which his brother had seldom seen. 

“What I found may be unrelated to the recent unfortunate business. As you know, Uncle Rudy,” Mycroft began, “mother's older brother, told our parents that Eurus...had died. It may have been to save their feelings, as he stated to me at the time, but another possibility exists. It seems...it seems that Uncle Rudy, after his schooling, traveled around the world for most of a decade. An account of his travels would make, shall we say, vivid reading? Unexpectedly, he found love, married, settled down, but was forced home when grandfather died to deal with some of the more delicate funeral arrangements.”

“Mother's father turned out to be a bigamist,” Sherlock reported to John. 

Mycroft sighed. “Quite. He maintained two families, each in ignorance of the other, each apparently of equally long standing. We were just grateful that there were no children from the...other family, although grandfather was supporting the three children from that wife's first marriage, so there were dependents involved and two wills to investigate. It took quite some time to sort out.” Mycroft took a deep breath and continued, “During this time, a notice came which said that Uncle Rudy's wife and two children had died. In a fire. This news left him...damaged. Devastated, in fact. And when Eurus began to...when she used fire to destroy people...it may have contributed to his...choices. At any rate, after dealing with...everything, Uncle Rudy drank himself to death in remarkably short order.”

John's eyes had grown rather wide at this point. He choked back a comment, coughed, took a deep breath, and motioned for Mycroft to continue. Meanwhile, Sherlock had changed his posture and was now leaning forward intently. 

“What I discovered in the secret cabinet is disturbing. It's going to take some time to untangle the legalities and it will--” he glanced at Sherlock and did not go on.

“You think it will affect how I think of..our parents?” Sherlock suggested. “No,” he said, staring at his brother intently. “Mother. You think there's something wrong and it involves Mummy,” Sherlock deduced. “What is it?” he demanded. 

“I found, in the cabinet,” Mycroft began again. Sherlock huffed at the repetition, scowled to get Mycroft stop pussyfooting around and just say whatever needed to be said. “A letter, addressed to Uncle Rudy but, I think, never delivered to him. It said that although his wife was dead, the children had been rescued by a neighbor and were still alive, although both had been hospitalized. A friend of the mother, an honorary aunt, had taken custody of the children. The letter requested instructions from him, begged him to come soon for the children. In the envelope which contained this letter was the receipt for a draft for five thousand pounds which our mother had sent by wire, to this friend.” 

“She didn't tell her brother his children lived?” John said, his eyes darting towards the bedroom his daughter shared with Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock watched John and added, “She sent money, told the friend that Rudy would not be back and instructed her to use the money to raise the children.”

John shook his head. “Why? She couldn't know Rudy had lied about her own child, so it wasn't revenge....”

Mycroft grimaced, his face turning slightly pink. Embarrassment? “I believe it was simply prejudice. You see, the money she sent went to a bank in Africa.”

“Africa,” Sherlock breathed, with enlightenment on his face.

“Oh, bloody hell,” John said as he caught up. 

“We have cousins, more or less of our own age,” Mycroft confirmed. “Whom I need to find,” he added. “Meanwhile, I have a legal team sorting out the inheritance. Because Uncle Rudy's money went to Mummy. Mummy, of course, had money of her own, so I do not believe she was trying to feather her own nest.” He said it as if he were grateful not to have that sin added to the growing list. “By rights the inheritance should go to Rudy's children. With interest, it will be a significant sum.”

“She'll have to be confronted, and Father told as well, to sort it out,” Sherlock said slowly. “She may lie.”

“Yes, it's going to be...” Mycroft paused.

“Total friggin' mess?” John supplied helpfully.

“Quite.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “I have agents at work even now tracing these cousins and gathering data. When the information is at hand, either you or I should go in person to explain and arrange for the transfer of the funds. As you are overseeing the rebuilding of 221 Baker Street and,” Mycroft glanced at John, “have other responsibilities, I will go. I will find it difficult to get away, but I also find myself in need of a...vacation.” 

Sherlock stared at his brother.

Mycroft sighed. “I have been told I need to take a 'mental health break.' I will use the time to look into this matter in depth.”

John shook his head. Mycroft? Sherlock had once said that Mycroft's problem was that he did not even take time off to even visit the toilet. He probably not had a proper holiday in years. Typical that it would be a working vacation.

A wintry small smile settled on Mycroft's face as he realized what John was thinking, but his attention stayed on Sherlock.

“Cousins.” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “They have to be better than the others we have.”

“No doubt.” Mycroft tried to smile again. It was not successful.

“You must have some information already,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

“The oldest child, a boy, Rudo, possibly named Rudolph for his father, grew up, attended school as long as he was able—he has had some university classes—and works for his country's Department of Transportation,” he paused for Sherlock to laugh himself sick and then went on as if not interrupted. “and his sister, who is probably called Denka, is a widow working in an office. She has one child, a girl. None of them are using any of our family names as a surname. As I said, we must wait for more information.”

“Mycroft....” John's head was tilted and his mind was, for once, possibly ahead of Sherlock's. “Are you going to bring them home?”

“Home is not the right word. Will they want to come to a foreign country?” Mycroft's scorn was touched with bitterness. “To be faced with Mummy's tender regard and Father's confusion?” 

No one mentioned Eurus, or the physical and metal fragility of her brothers at the moment, or the problems of culture, race, and possibly language.

“My duty,” Mycroft went on, “is to sort this out. To get them the inheritance they deserve and the training to handle it. To let them know the choices available. School, if they wish a degree. I've arranged to take the entire month of May. Sherlock, that means you will have to deal with whatever drama our parents generate during the time I am away.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did not protest.

“The easier job of the two?” John asked blandly. He got identical looks of annoyance from both Holmes. That made him grin. “Keep in touch,” John ordered. He was rather surprised when Mycroft nodded his agreement as he stood up. Then John frowned, “Not staying for tea?

“My apologies. Too much to do,” Mycroft sighed. “I'll give you an update if anything of note occurs before I leave.”

John followed Mycroft to the door and politely saw him out.

Sherlock said, as John came back, “He has another language to learn in only three weeks and needs to give his assistant special training before he leaves her on her own. She can handle it, Mycroft is just a nervous twat,” Sherlock said as John came back to hand around the tea, which had seeped rather longer than planned. 

“Do you think your father knew?” John asked, after the first sip.

“No. I may be having some very awkward conversations with my parents.” Sherlock looked both annoyed and revolted at the thought. “If they'll say anything at all.”

“Because you have this driving need to know, and the only answer to this puzzle will have to come through actual communication. Talking with your parents is, as far as I can tell, something you've always avoided.” John took another sip of the less than satisfactory tea.

“Always.” Sherlock sighed. Then he added. “It might explain Uncle Rudy's reputation for cross-dressing.”

“What?” John said, his brow wrinkling, his eyes wide.

“If he was wearing some sort of native African dress in his own home, and someone walked in on him, they might not realize,” he waved his hand, too lazy to explain, sure that he had given John enough information. Then Sherlock frowned, glancing at the door Mycroft hd exited from. “I wonder what he was holding back?”

“Mycroft? Holding something back?” John asked, making a face. 

“There was something. Some key but minor point, which he did not want to address with me at this point. Some layer of the mystery.” Sherlock, of course, did not take well to not knowing the entirety.

“He's still investigating.” After all, Mycroft, too, did not like not knowing. 

John decided to change the subject. “Some day you'll have to tell me about these cousins that you already know about. That bad?”

Sherlock shuddered. “Ghastly.”

John reflected on what Sherlock might term ghastly. “Small minded, mocking, ignorant, bullies?” he speculated. 

“Add lying, cheating, avaricious buffoons,” Sherlock said. “Children of father's sister and quite envious of his...better financial status.” 

“Did you have to spend much time with them?” John asked.

“Christmas and a week each summer when I was a young boy. It all stopped when I was twelve. No explanation forthcoming, of course.”

“Mycroft probably knows. But you've never asked him,” John guessed. “Or asked your parents,” he went on. “You would have had to have an actual discussion.”

“It was enough that it was finished. If I have asked, all I would have gotten was a clipped declaration that it was none of my business, or that I was too young and would be told when I was older,” he observed dryly. “I never seemed to grow old enough.”

John made the sort of sound he made when he had an opinion but did not want to express it out loud. Then he drank some of his tea. “I see something,” he eventually said.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow in his direction.

John frowned and slowly said, “You and I don't talk about...things.” 

This time Sherlock lifted his cup and nodded at John to continue.

“Right. British. Men. Uncomfortable. But we should have talked about things sometimes. We both know that. But this background you've just shared. Explains why... You didn't get raised with actual communication. You with your keen desire to know, to find out, and nobody who would answer. Left with only your brain to work things out. Which, given your brain, it worked for you.” He took a deep breath. “I've just realized I didn't get often get information back from my interactions with my own parents. If Dad was drinking, you didn't even bother asking. My mother wouldn't talk to us when he was there, for fear of annoying him if she accidentally contradicted him. He was big on direct orders, shouting and...hitting.”

Sherlock said nothing, waiting. John took a deep, deep, breath. “The more important a thing was, the less likely it was talked about. He would get mad about it, and the more important to him, the more he...hit out. I just realized...I realized I...channel him when I...When....” He gave a sigh and said quietly, “When I hit you. God, I should never have hit you!”

“It was anger. I...understood it.” Sherlock said it woodenly, but then, John was amazed he said it at all.

“Felt you deserved it?” John suggested.

“Every time. I did...deserve it.”

“No you did not. Not ever!” John realized he was shouting and half out of his chair and threw himself backward, hard. Just like his dad, he was. Shouting. 

“For my mistakes. For causing you to...mourn. For...” But Sherlock could not go on and sat, staring at the rug under his shoes. 

“Sherlock...”

“I know what was my fault. What I did wrong.”

“What you did wrong was the same thing I did. We didn't talk to each other, early. Before it got so fucked up we couldn't. We need to fix this, now.”

Sherlock was thinking. John could see it in the way he held his head, the way his eyes shifted. “What should we talk about?” Sherlock asked eventually.

There was a long, long silence.

Finally, tentatively, Sherlock said, “Mrs. Hudson and I made some changes during the repairs. 221.”

John rolled his eyes in an ohmygodreally THAT'S what you want to talk about face, and opened his mouth to comment, but Sherlock spoke over him. 

“Mrs. Hudson said I should because...she told me was leaving the building to me in her will and it was a good time to make any changes that would suit my needs.” John's mouth opened but as nothing came out, Sherlock continued. “Because of her hip, we gutted out C and made a storage room and a bigger flat on the bottom. More convenient for a person getting older. There's stairs to our level, but also we're adding a lift, so she can visit. On our level there's a flat with three bedrooms and above us there is a lab with separate venting, and storage.”

And John said, “Three bedrooms?”

“For when you and Rosie are...visit.”

They both sat in silence for a moment.

“A bit cramped. Three bedrooms.” John thought about it for a moment. “Too late to make changes?”

“Changes?”

“Two bedrooms. We could share one. When I...”

“Move in?” Sherlock asked, his voice going a little soft.

“That's...”

“Something to talk about.” Sherlock said it firmly.

“Yes. Yes, it certainly is.” John took a deep breath. Moving back home, all of them. “Are you implying....”

“We can make it anything you want, John.”

“New day and all that.”

“Precisely.”

“Well. Good. Lot's of talking.”

“To your daughter as well.”

“Not going to make the same mistakes our parents made?” John asked wryly.

“We'll make new ones. Thousands.” 

“Well, good,” Johns said again. There was a rattle at the door and he jumped up to help Mrs. Hudson in with the shopping and the toddler, and Sherlock threw himself back against the cushions, looked up at the ceiling, and smiled.


	2. Part 2  African Sunrise: The Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So on the other side of the world at about the same time, this meeting was taking place.

African Sunrise: The Other Side Wakanda

Taba closed her eyes and fought back a sigh. The meeting had been going so well, too. She rubbed her temple and then brought her hand away, hoping none of the others had observed her annoyance. 

“This plan serves several purposes, the elder representing the Border tribe stated. As he had now said it for the third time, the statement was not moving her agenda forward.

“It is not the time to introduce foreigners to our society! We are not stable enough to handle the disruptions.” Makanta's voice was too loud. He'd been getting louder through the entire meeting. She lifted her spear in warning, and he subsided before she could thump it on the floor to censure him.

“We have survived a terrible battle in which both sides were our own people. A third of our warriors did not get treatment fast enough to avoid disability, and too many died. We will have to train up an new generation.”

“In this, are you arguing before or against? With the security problems new blood will bring, now is not the time to begin this project.”

“It is not new blood! We are searching for the lost! For those of Wakanda blood who have gone out into the world.”

“Not the exiles, you have said, and not the criminals. Who is left?”

Taba said, “We have identified one hundred and nineteen individuals who have left because of disagreements with family, including twenty-two women and one man who left to avoid being pressured into unwanted marriage.”

“The number is not great enough to cause us problems, even if every one of them returned.” This quiet voice of reason was from a wise old woman. Why weren't they listening?

“If we add in their spouses, children and the spouses parents, brothers, sisters. The number may be over a thousand!” Makanta dropped his voice when she glared at him. 

“Still not an impossible number.”

“Many will be approaching our borders, wanting to be part of us, part of our better life. We have had no immigration policy, and are now forced to make one. Begin with these lost ones.”

“The problems which drove them away may still be here. They will bring problems which were thought solved. Some will want justice. Or revenge. This will be more trouble than it is worth.”

“But is this not something we owe our own?”

“How many generations do you intend to go back? Who has a right to Wakandan citizenship? What blood ties will suffice?”

“This we must determine. Right now, we discuss if it is to happen at all.” Then, present the decision to the king, who might decide for it or against it, or ask for more information, or for delays. Starting the process all over again. 

“Perhaps it should be on a case by case basis. Let them present a document about their connection to Wakanda. If they are seeking justice, let them explain. Perhaps, to become Wakandan, they must give up a disputed inheritance, a feud. Perhaps we will ask them to renounce their current citizenship, but what happens then if it does not work out and they must go back? Not all of these will be good people. Do we keep good and bad? Is their presence dependent upon their behavior?”

“This will be discussed, of course.”

Taba said, “This list of people we would accept back is not complete. But I would like to present a sample case, for discussion. If you will permit this?”

No one objected, although there were side glances and a few quite asides. “I will set out for you the case of a woman, Otasti, whose family wished her to marry their very esteemed neighbor, a widower older than she. She said no, firmly. Her family accepted this, but the suitor did not, and one evening, decided to solve the problem another way. His argument was that, if she was carrying his child, there was now no reason not to marry. He attacked her. She did not speak out to get justice because of threats he made in regards to her younger sister and younger brother. She told her sister the situation, then she ran away during that same night. She started a new life, married. Now she is dead, but her two children yet live. Do they even know of their mother's country? Suppose they return to Wakanda. 

“Did their mother teach them the language or will they need a translation devise? How will they learn the culture, how to live, to buy food, to find a job, a house? Will they be acknowledged as kin by the mother's family? Is there inheritance involved? What proof of the story is there except the word of her sister? Will legal action be taken against the attacker, who is still alive? 

What relationship do they make have with family? The first children are half Wakandan. But, the children of this mother have a colonizer father. Will you allow the father to visit, to stay? His relatives?”

She paused and then said, “Each of the lost will have a story as complex as this. What we contemplate will take new laws, new divisions of government. Our people will be introduced to new ideas, and new ways. If we decide to seek the lost, our decisions will affect Wakanda for generations to come.”

“All our decisions affect Wakanda for generations to come. But the sunset approaches, I am hungry, and I suggest we begin this discussion again tomorrow.” Makanta's voice was getting loud again. 

This time, Taba didn't object. She gestured, the ceremonial spear thumped the ground once, and no one protested, so they began to disband. Good. 

At least they were not going to have time to argue about Everett Ross. Again.


End file.
